


Pray the Sun will Rise

by slamncram



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Friends to Enemies, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past friends with benefits, Rough Kissing, Sort Of, Spoilers through Season 3, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23779699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slamncram/pseuds/slamncram
Summary: “Tim,” Jon started, in that tired, diplomatic way he tended to say Tim’s name these days. “What are you doing?”Finding Jon in the Archives after three in the morning wasn't something Tim was expecting. Arguing with him he knew was inevitable. Everything that came after... that was old time's sake.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 26
Kudos: 217





	Pray the Sun will Rise

They weren’t talking anymore.

It wasn’t like it was something that had happened gradually. Sometimes, Tim wished it was; perhaps, if that had been the case it wouldn’t feel as unnatural. It wouldn’t press on him in the monotony of the endless afternoons, the ones meant to be spent working on research for whatever statement was most urgent, or, lately, whatever dastardly plan needed looking into.

He knew it was something he had done, even if, maybe, it hadn’t been done entirely alone. They had both played a part, an important one, moving away from each other like players on a stage at the end of an act. A stage that Elias sat in front of, directing them through a script only he knew, with a gun trained on them all.

It was, after all, all of them who were suffering. Some of them more than others. Martin wanted peace, nothing but. Basira seemed happy enough to ignore it all, even while she watched from behind whichever book she’d retrieved from the recesses of the library. Melanie...

Melanie was losing herself a little more every day. Tim understood that. He felt the same way.

He suspected Jon did as well.

Not that he would know. They didn’t talk anymore.

_That_ thought, lingering in his mind, annoyed Tim enough that as he came up to the trapdoor into the Archives, he pushed it, hard. Hard enough that it banged, bouncing back a little, causing him to flinch, even as he put a hand out to steady it.

“That’s... quite the entrance.”

It wasn’t what Tim had expected, but the sound of Jon’s voice didn’t surprise him, even if he jumped for the second time in the last ten seconds.

“It’s three in the morning, _boss_ ,” he drawled, trying to keep any emotion, any reaction, from his tone. There was some stubborn part of him, now, that didn’t want to give Jon any kind of emotional response whenever they spoke.

At other times, that stubborn part of him wanted nothing more than to give Jon a truly spectacular reaction. To yell and threaten, rail and carry on, until he could get the response he wanted from the other.

Not that he knew what that response might be.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Doing that would give a kind of power to it that he desperately wanted to deny.

“I could say the same to you,” Jon answered, his tone soft, the same one he’d used the last time they were here; when he’d given his apologies, and promised Tim he would have a part to play when they moved against the Stranger.

He was _trying_.

Knowing that fact only twisted the knife in Tim’s chest. It was a feeling he wanted to cling to, as if harnessing it would provide him with a shield against the concerned, almost hurt look in Jon’s eyes.

“Tim,” he started, in that tired, diplomatic way he tended to say Tim’s name these days. “What are you doing?”

That wasn’t something that Tim wanted to answer right away. He straightened up, closing the trapdoor, pushed up the sleeves of his jumper. Jon made that stepped on noise that he made when his impatience was getting the better of him and Tim smirked, which only seemed to increase the volume the next time that noise came out.

That was what first put a crack in that shield Tim was trying so hard to hold on to.

“Could ask you the same,” he replied, twisting Jon’s own non-answer from before, not meeting his eyes. “But since I can’t trust you not to go picking around in my head -”

“ - I wouldn’t!”

Tim paused, glaring and feeling the _fury_ rising in his chest.

“Not... not on purpose.”

Tim huffed. “Right. Well, any way, I... couldn’t sleep.”

Jon smiled, a gentle, sardonic thing that was so familiar that Tim felt a pang of nostalgia. He knew that smile so well, knew it from their time in research. How many times had he seen that smile when he was leaning on Jon’s desk, harassing him, stealing his time and attention day after day until Jon was a _friend_?

“Makes two of us,” Jon said, pushing an errant strand of hair from his eyes. It was all errant strands these days. He had, somewhat, left his hair to its own devices ever since the attack on the Institute by Prentiss. It wasn’t so long after that, a few months, that Tim had actually made a joke about it. Even then, when everything was starting to break down between them, he’d felt close enough to Jon to make a joke like that, and Jon...

He’d laughed. When Tim turned his back, yes, but he _had_ laughed. It was a memory he cherished against his better judgment. It was a brief flash of the Jon he’d known before the thing that wasn’t Sasha, before Prentiss, even before the pressure of being Head Archivist, had hidden that Jon away.

Memories like that made him weak.

“Yeah?” he said, trying for disinterest. “You working on your supernatural stalker yoga, then? Is there a mental version of downward dog that makes it easier to get at people’s private thoughts?”

Tim didn’t know if it was the exhaustion, or the late hour, or some quiet insanity finally setting in, but Jon didn’t roll his eyes or snap or make that annoyed sputtering sound he usually made when Tim threw these things in his face.

What he did was push out the other rolling chair by the desk with his foot. It was wordless, and while Tim didn’t doubt that perhaps Elias could sway someone without saying a word, he _doubted_ Jon could.

So, he sat down.

“I thought I’d go digging for a few more Circus related statements,” Tim admitted. He sat there, arms and ankles crossed, not looking at Jon, wondering how it was that they had gotten _here_.

There had been such promise, a few years ago.

“I’ve been through just about all of them, of course,” he continued. “But I know there are likely others. Grimaldi... Orsinov... They wouldn’t leave all that torment to just a handful of people. Going by your experience... By, ah, Danny’s... Just doesn’t seem like their M.O.”

As he spoke, Jon kept quiet, not even really moving. Tim looked at him, finally, taking in the way he was sitting, at ease in his chair, leaning on the desk on one elbow, his eyes focused entirely on Tim.

For the first time in a long, long time, Tim saw Jon looking at him and he didn’t feel distrust, suspicion or disdain weighing on him along with that gaze. It was nice. It was infuriating.

“What?”

That one word came out of his mouth like the crack of a whip, sudden and sharp. Tim could see it hit Jon like a slap in the way he jerked back. That felt almost good, and the knowledge of that made Tim a bit disgusted with himself. That was just fine.

“Excuse me?”

Now, _there_ was his Jon.

“ _Why_ are you staring like that?”

“Like _what_?”

“You know.”

“No, Tim, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

The sound of Jon’s defensiveness, the low prickling warning of his barely controlled temper, was amazingly, immediately addictive, and Tim grinned, baring his teeth more than anything.

“Like you’re trying to get in my head, figure out what I’m _not_ saying.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous -”

“ - You were staring -”

“ - listening! -”

“ - Like a freak.”

That was where they stopped, the silence crashing down between them. Tim could feel his heart beating harder in anticipation. Of what, he didn’t know. Or, rather, he was pretending not to expect.

Jon’s mouth was hanging open, the picture of incredulity until he seemed to realize and shut it with a _click_ of his teeth meeting.

“I... don’t know why I bother anymore.” He said, his tone quiet, heavy with exhaustion. “All we ever do, you and I, is this.”

Tim snorted.

“‘ _This_ ’ like this isn’t obviously fighting? Like it’s anything else?”

Jon shrugged. “Tearing each other down, looking for, what, apologies? I’ve tried, Tim -”

The thump of Tim’s heart ramped up, pushing him that last little bit. He almost wasn’t aware of what he was doing, but he was on his feet, hauling Jon to his with both hands fisted in his knit cardigan, before his brain could catch up and weigh the pros and cons.

Something that was a mix between fear and surprise flashed in Jon’s eyes and Tim felt _terribly_ pleased. Surprising Jon, lately, felt impossible.

“Haven’t you caught on yet? I’m not _looking_ for an apology. Not anymore.”

“Tim -”

“ -Don’t.”

Tim pushed, getting more satisfaction than he knew he should from being able to press Jon back against the wall, narrowing the space between them even more.

“You know what would have been nice? Having my friend back. Not feeling like a monster is wearing his face any time I get stuck talking to you.”

Tim had seen the change in Jon’s eyes as he’d been speaking. The shift from annoyance to anger to something Tim didn’t want to call _hurt._ Not because he didn’t believe it was, but because he didn’t want it to make him soft.

He’d always had a weakness for those big brown eyes.

“Tim, I’m _not_ a monster. I mean, I – I’m trying not to be. I don’t _want_ to be Elias -”

“ - So then _don’t_.”

“It’s not that simple, Tim. It’s not like I want any of this. You think I wanted to lose Sasha?”

Tim opened his mouth, fury building in his belly.

“Do you think I wanted to lose you?”

Jon’s voice had softened, and with it, his eyes had gotten that _pleading_ quality, and the fury in Tim snapped.

He didn’t hit Jon. The fury would have been happy with that, but Tim wouldn’t, he knew that all too well.

No. When the fury in his chest snapped, Tim crushed Jon to the wall and kissed him, hard and sharp and angry and _wanting_.

And Jon kissed back.

That was the most surprising part. Tim had half-expected him to shove, to push him back, and ask him what the hell he was playing at. When he kissed Jon, he had thought the reaction would be _negative_.

Not that this was altogether a _positive_ reaction. Jon kissed him back like they _were_ fighting; even trapped against the wall he was all edges, all of his own anger and bitterness on his tongue like a sting, pushing against Tim’s.

If Tim _had_ hit him, it wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying as this.

Jon’s hands were tight in his jumper when he came back to his senses, pushing Tim back, holding him at arm’s length, and just looking at him. Looking and breathing, hard, through parted, spit-slick lips that Tim had just had his teeth around a second before.

Tim stared back.

This was dangerous. They had a choice to make, here. Tim could leave, go dig for his statement, or head back the way he’d come. He could turn his back on Jon and put a stop to this, deny the beast clawing at his chest, begging to be let loose. He should. They didn’t have time for this. They shouldn’t do this.

That _damn_ nostalgia was a bitch, though.

Tim looked at Jon, watching him, watching for one of them to make the next move, and the nostalgia reared its big ugly head. He should have known it would, after the hint of it a few minutes ago.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. The Archives after midnight was new, but it wasn’t unfamiliar territory for them. The first time had been late at night – not this late, but _late_ – in research. Shy, tentative things passing between them before Tim offered to get Jon home. The last time had been less shy, less tentative, desperate in Tim’s car shortly after Prentiss’ attack on the Institute. _Before_ the paranoia and hatred and bitterness. Looking for comfort and familiarity in each other in a break that was far too short in the end.

Tim looked at Jon and he remembered that last time, a lifetime ago, and he ached.

Jon must have seen it in his head.

Or maybe he was as much a slave to the nostalgia as Tim.

Whatever it was, _Jon_ was the one who made the move. He’d pushed Tim back but now he was pulling him in, kissing him again with a fervor like he’d never stopped.

Tim could lie to himself almost all the time. He was getting to be rather good at it, convincing himself of truths that didn’t have a shred of support in reality. He could lie to himself and try to believe that Jon didn’t care, wouldn’t care and _couldn’t_ care. He would try and believe the same about himself.

Right in this moment, though, Tim was having a hard time believing his own lies. He couldn’t. Not with the way Jon was clinging to him, that hungry need in every brush of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth. He certainly wasn’t buying those lies with the dull ache in his own chest as he pushed a thigh between Jon’s legs, keeping him still and trapped while he left his mouth to drag kisses down his neck.

“Tim,” Jon gasped, and Tim grunted, letting him take that however he liked. “Tim, we... I’m...”

Drawing away from Jon’s neck, Tim looked him in the eye, disproportionately proud of the darkness he saw in them. There was a flash of that familiarity in him at the sight of that. Jon wasn’t one to do this. Not _often_. They’d talked about it, once. He didn’t have the same _drive_ for it, didn’t chase it down the way some people did.

But when he felt that itch, that minor annoyance, he’d come to Tim. And Tim was only too happy to oblige, every time. When Jon had come to him with that look in his eye, Tim was only too happy to grin and throw an arm around his shoulders and ask, did Jon want to come over tonight?

Jon had that look in his eyes now.

Tim was surprised, for a second. Then he thought about how _very_ long it had been since they’d been friendly, let alone friendly enough for _that_.

“Not that I think this will make you any less of a bastard...” Tim stated, pressing forward, making _sure_ Jon was present and aware of the leg between his. His hands moved to the front of Jon’s trousers, fingers popping the button and pulling down the tab on his zipper with quick, practised movement. Jon’s breath caught and he moved a hand to cover Tim’s.

He would stop, if he’d read Jon wrong. It wouldn’t be surprising if he had, with how far apart they’d drifted. He would stop, and back off, and leave, and add this to the list of things they didn’t talk about, because they simply didn’t talk.

Jon didn’t stop him, though. He was red around the ears and he wasn’t quite meeting Tim’s eyes, but he didn’t stop him. He pressed Tim’s hand against himself and sighed, and that was all the sign Tim found he needed.

It was like the steps to a well known dance. Tim pulled Jon’s trousers open wider, pushed them over his hips along with the waistband of his briefs. Just enough for Tim to get a grip, to wrap his hand around Jon’s half-hard cock, dragging his thumb over the head and watching the shiver pass through him.

“God, that’s...” Jon cleared his throat, his hands landing on Tim’s upper arms and squeezing, eyes shut. “Do you...?”

Tim twisted his wrist, rubbing his palm down the length of him and grinned. Right now, in this moment, feeling Jon stiffen under his hand, it was easier to forget the anger, the bitterness.

“Do I...?” he prompted.

Jon opened his eyes into a glare, focusing far too much for Tim’s liking.

“I can _see_ you need something just as badly as me.”

“Yeah?” Tim asked, leaning against his free hand on the wall by Jon’s shoulder, his other hand moving slowly, carefully, enjoying this one brief moment where he didn’t _have_ to try and hate Jon. “You’re welcome to try, but if I’m guessing right...” he squeezed, pulling his hand slow up Jon’s cock, revelling in the tightening of the other’s fingers on his arms. “You’re not in any state.”

It wasn’t overconfidence in his own abilities that had Tim talking like that. It was written all over Jon’s face, obvious in the flush spreading upwards from the collar of his shirt. Every drag of Tim’s thumb over the head was slicker than the last, and those fingers on his arms were alternating between tight and so loose they were nearly dragging down.

And then there were his eyes. Feverish and dark, and locked on Tim’s face. For the first time, he found that wasn’t what he wanted and leaned in again, burying his face against Jon’s neck.

Jon wasn’t pushing the other issue any more. This close, Tim could hear the quiet, needy note of a whine on the edge of every exhale he made, and as he pressed his lips under Jon’s ear he could nearly taste the tripping of his pulse.

He drank it in, working Jon at a maddening pace, enough to ruin him, eventually, but not so much that it wouldn’t last just a little longer.

Just long enough for Tim to remember the way Jon had kissed him the night after they’d argued about the inaccuracies in some of the recorded statements. The playful, fond press of lips, the way he’d settled into Tim’s side and told him he _still_ wouldn’t rerecord any statements.

Jon made a quiet, desperate sound that dug its way under Tim’s skin and he groaned, pressing his teeth into the skin at the crook of his neck. He could feel the smooth, raised bumps of the scars the worms had left there against his tongue. He had the same scars in the same places. Something that linked them together aside from the distrust and the hurt.

“Christ... Tim...”

There was a thin, needy note to the way Jon said his name and Tim quickened his strokes, urging Jon on, ignoring the dull, tight pain in his wrist, ignoring everything but the heat in his blood and the pull of the affection of would never be rid of, no matter how hard he tried.

“You all right, boss?” he asked, his voice rough with desire, with wanting to see Jon fall apart, to hear him lose the composure that, even now, he was trying so hard to hold on to.

And he got his wish.

No sooner had the words left his lips than Jon was gripping at his arm tightly with one hand, the fabric of Tim’s jumper twisting in his fist, and covering his mouth with the other. He wasn’t loud, keening through tightly pressed lips, but the gesture was horribly endearing for Tim, a perfect companion for the way Jon’s knees went a bit weak when he came.

Tim hadn’t really thought this through. Jon’s come was hot, even through his jeans, making a mess of his thigh while he pulled him through his orgasm. If he hadn’t been planning to go home after this already, he definitely would be now.

It would be rude of him to walk away this instant, though. As much as he was very aware there was part of him, muffled though it was by the still hot rush of his blood, that was scrambling to get away from Jon as fast as possible, he simply couldn’t.

It would mean missing the way Jon let would a long, relaxed breath, eyes opening again, slow, like he was coming out of a particularly good sleep. That, Tim suspected, was yet another thing that Jon hadn’t gotten in a long while.

“Well, that...” Jon paused, cleared his throat. “That certainly wasn’t what I expected to happen when you started yelling at me.” He reached down, tucking himself back in, and doing his trousers back up. “Rather thought you...”

“Thought I was going to hit you?” Tim supplied, moving over to the desk and taking a tissue from the box. He wiped his hand with it and swiped at the mess on his pants before grabbing another. “I’ll be honest, I thought about it.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, long enough that Tim looked over, assessing him while he binned the used tissues.

He looked like a mess. He always looked like a mess, lately. Before, he’d been put together enough, played the bookish, academic to a T. Now, Tim felt like every time he saw him he was more rumpled, his prematurely greying hair longer, messier, his stubble either too long or too patchy to be acceptable.

Right now, Jon was rumpled, bleary-eyed, hair falling from the bun he’d taken to shoving it into. He was still a little flushed, his breathing still a little harsh.

Jon was a very specific type of mess, and it was very much Tim’s doing.

“So,” Jon asked. “Why didn’t you?”

Tim shrugged.

“Couldn’t say. Maybe I just got caught up.” he moved towards the trapdoor again, pulling the sleeves of his jumper back down. “Maybe I just did it for _old times sake_.”

Jon nodded, and stayed quiet for such a long pause afterwards that Tim suspected that was it. Shaking his head, he turned away and stepped back into the darkness that would lead him into the tunnels and out onto the dark London streets.

“Tim,” Jon said, behind him. “Tim, I ... I miss you.”

There was a raw, heartbroken note in his tone that shot right through Tim. If he’d been facing Jon, he _knew_ the other man would have seen it all over his face, stark and indisputable.

But he wasn’t facing Jon, so as he reached for the trapdoor, cell phone in hand, torch already illuminated, he didn’t need to worry about his true feelings being known unless Jon violated his already thin trust.

“Be seeing you.”

_I miss you, too._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> If you'd like to come yell at me about The Magnus Archives, jontim, or anything else, you can find me on Twitter [@slamncram](https://twitter.com/slamncram)!


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